Hearts and Hands
by cydonian
Summary: Because without John Watson, there is no Sherlock Holmes. T for guns and angst and stuff. First Sherlock fic - please be gentle!
1. Hearts

**A/N: Firstly, this is my very first Sherlock fanfic, and it turned out somewhat angstier than I would have ever imagined. Secondly, this fic was inspired by "Doomsday" from the Doctor Who soundtrack, and I would strongly recommend listening to it whilst reading the fic (available on YouTube).**

**Now, onwards with the fic~!**

One. Two. Three.

The heartbeat is faint. So very, very faint; so faint it almost breaks his own heart in two.

The stench of disease and disinfectant and death is overwhelming. _This is not how it was meant to be._

He isn't supposed to be sitting here, staring helplessly at the pale, unmoving body of his friend, rigid underneath the stiff, starched covers of the hospital bed.

John isn't supposed to be there, cold and still, lying on the thin mattress, his face the colour of the maddeningly white, spotless walls.

John is supposed to be sat in his chair in front of the TV at 221B Baker Street, sipping tea and chuckling softly into his mug at whatever snide remark Sherlock makes about the programme.

John is supposed to be sat by his desk, tapping away at the keyboard, the screen of his laptop glowing lightly, and he's supposed to get annoyed with Sherlock when he snatches the damned thing away and flops onto the sofa with it.

But John is here – a tiny figure in the middle of this seemingly enormous bed, all colour drained from his face, the beeping of the electrocardiograph the only thing keeping Sherlock sane in the knowledge that John is still alive.

It's all wrong. It's all terribly, _terribly wrong._

Sherlock lowers his head into his hands, and for the first time in years he cries, honest, hot tears rolling down his cheeks and dripping down from the tip of his nose, uncontrollable sobs escaping his chest and ripping him apart with every gasp and shudder_._ His shoulders are shaking now, and he shivers and chokes and his hands and lips are trembling and oh God, why, why does it have to be John, why John, why not him, why John, John doesn't deserve to die, not now, not in this way, _please oh God please if you're out there if you exist please don't let him die please don't let him die not now not in this way oh please God why why John why John and not me oh please let him live I'll do anything just please let him live_

He cries long and hard, up to the point where he can cry no more, and his shirt which Mrs Hudson thoughtfully brought the previous along with his other clothes is wet, and when he rubs his eyes with the sleeves they become soaked with tears, too. He's exhausted, but he doesn't want to, _can't_, leave John on his own, so he pulls his legs up onto the chair he's sitting in, and wraps his coat tighter around himself. His coat is the shield that can protect him from the outside world if his worst fears come true.

And if they do, he'll disappear.

There will be no more Sherlock Holmes, the world's only consulting detective. There will be no police knocking on his door, no frantic chases around the streets of London, no reports, no Lestrade and no Donovan, no Dimmock and no Anderson; no new, thrilling cases.

Because without John Watson, there is no Sherlock Holmes.

The heartbeat is there, reflecting off the tiled walls and off the surface of the gleaming water, amplified infinitely, flooding Sherlock's ears, throbbing and shaking his very foundations.

His hands are trembling, and he suddenly finds it very hard to keep the gun pointed at the semtex-laden jacket on the floor. Out of the corner of his eye, he can see John, staring at the small, grinning man before them. He turns his head towards Sherlock, his usually calm, blue eyes now wide open with terror. The crescendo of heartbeats is unbearably loud, and it seems as if John can hear it too, because there's a small flash in his eyes, and his entire face suddenly becomes very determined.

He nods, and Sherlock pulls the trigger.

It feels as if the entire world is collapsing around them when he's tackled into the pool by John, hitting his head hard on the tiles. And they fall, together, John's arms wrapped tightly around Sherlock's middle, pulling him further and further beneath the surface of the water, away from the flames and the noise and the flying debris, _and away from Moriarty._

It's all silent and in slow motion now (_how dull_), and Sherlock opens his eyes. The chlorinated water stings, but it doesn't matter because he's alive, and _John's alive_, kicking his legs frantically in the water, grasping at Sherlock's arms and pulling him upwards and the heartbeat starts to grow stronger and stronger again. But Sherlock knows there's something wrong, that something's _not right_, because the water is turning an alarming shade of pink at a startlingly fast rate and John is surrounded by a cloud of red and the heartbeat is now pounding in his ears and through his veins and _oh God please don't let him die please not him not John please no please not John oh God-_

He wakes up with a violent jerk, cold sweat on his palms and his face, damp curls plastered to his forehead. He wipes his brow with the sleeve of his shirt, and glances at John's expressionless face. He sighs, and gets up to drag his chair closer to the bed, carefully and quietly, as though he might wake John up (_don't be an idiot, of course he's sleeping but he is going to wake up please let him wake up_). After a little hesitation he stretches his arm out and places his sweaty hand on top of John's cold one, curling his fingers around John's lightly.

At first there is silence, but then something inside Sherlock breaks, and the tears are now falling freely, and he just can't stop talking.

He tells John just how much he misses him and how frightened he is and how brave John is and how much he wishes John would just wake up and how much he misses John's smile and how he's been such an idiot for being horrid to John and how sorry he is and how much he loves him, _yes, I love you John,_ and just how much he wants John to wake up and tell him that it's all going to be fine.

And then, he feels John's hand twitch ever so slightly under his own.

The beeping on the electrocardiograph monitor stops for the briefest of seconds, and Sherlock panics, eyes darting all over John's face, a huge lump in his throat and a tide of new tears ready to break through his barriers again.

John's eyes flutter open.


	2. Hands

**A/N: So, 'tis the second part to this little fic that I wrote~ Unfortunately, I don't have any suggestions for a song to be listened to whilst reading, so if you do find one, please let me know!**

There is a pink haze clouding his eyes as he beats the water with all his might, trying to get Sherlock closer to the surface. The throbbing pain in his side is almost unbearable (_oh God, they've shot me_), and it twists and turns his weakening body.

But he goes on, pushing through the water, his heartbeat pounding in his ears, and the last thing he sees before the now-red cloud engulfs him completely is Sherlock's eyes, blue like the water surrounding them, and all he can feel is Sherlock's tightening grip on his right hand.

And with that, he's gone.

John's eyes flutter open.

His insides hurt. He must've been hit by one of the snipers, or injured by a piece of airborne debris. But God_, I'm alive. _

The room is strangely familiar even though John is fairly sure he's never been there before. It's very, very bright and he squints, the lights glaring in his eyes painfully. There's a strong smell of disinfectant, and he can hear the faint beeping of the electrocardiograph.

A hospital, then.

He lets his eyes close again, revelling in the situation. _I'm alive. I'm bloody alive. _He gives a small breath of relief, but regrets it immediately after when a jolt of pain shoots across his chest and abdomen. He hisses lightly, and that's when he realises that there's something _not quite right. _

His hand is being held by someone, their fingers curled tightly around John's, a warm pressure spread evenly across. It feels very pleasant, but slightly strange – nobody has held his hand in years, aside from the nameless, faceless nurses in the Afghan hospital, and their touch, though filled with concern, wasn't, just _wasn't _like this.

He opens his eyes for the second time. It's probably Harry; Lestrade had surely called her and let her know about the whole shebang with Moriarty. She'd probably barged her way in and refused to leave until someone dragged her out. That's Harry Watson for you.

But this touch, it feels odd. The hand is too big; it can easily cover the entirety of John's, while Harry's hands were always so small he could easily make them disappear between his own. So it's not Harry, then. John shifts a little, and lifts his head.

It's Sherlock.

It's Sherlock like John has never seen him before. His eyes are red and swollen, traces of tears visible on his cheeks, and _oh God he's crying and sobbing and shaking and howling but he's smiling his smiling through the tears oh God Sherlock I'm alive we're both alive_

"Hi," he says a little weakly, and smiles uncertainly at the broken mass of nerves before him. It's very strange, seeing Sherlock like this, with his guard completely dropped and only John there to witness it. But it's beautiful, it's beautiful beyond description, because John knows, _he just knows_ that Sherlock doesn't just drop his guard down for anyone, so he locks the moment away in his mind to be kept safe there for ever.

"H-hello," Sherlock blubbers, and he gives John an uncertain, but honest smile. John laughs lightly.

"God, Sherlock. You're a mess."

A brief pause; then another smile. "I know." And with that, he wipes his eyes with the sleeve of his coat. There are a few cuts on Sherlock's face, just below his left eye and one across his lower lip, and John automatically switches into Dr Watson mode.

"Come here." Sherlock makes a confused face, and John rolls his eyes. "I just want to check your cuts. I'm your doctor, for crying out loud, even if I am the one attached to the ECG."

Sherlock obeys him wordlessly, releasing John's hand and shifting onto the side of his bed, face leaning towards John. The blonde man stretches out both his hands towards Sherlock, but the searing pain through his right arm forces him to put it down. Silently, Sherlock takes the hand between his own two, and immediately feels his face go even redder, so he just closes his eyes and lets John work his magic.

His roughened fingertips brush the cuts on Sherlock's face, his touch very, very delicate, feeling each and every bump and scratch on the other man's face. The cuts are healing extremely quickly, and they should be completely gone in a matter of a few days, possibly a week. He touches the cut on Sherlock's lip delicately, and he can hear the sharp intake of breath from the man. _This one might take a bit longer_, he decides, and lets his hand slide down and settle on Sherlock's shoulder.

"You lucky git," he says, smiling at Sherlock, whose eyes flicker open again. "You only got away with a few cuts, and look at the bloody state I'm in!" He chuckles lightly, more to himself than to Sherlock.

"I got a minor concussion, from when you pushed me into the pool. It's nothing serious, though," Sherlock adds hastily when he sees a flash of worry in John's eyes. He gives his hand an experimental squeeze, and John decides that it's a rather pleasant feeling. "You've been shot, in the right shoulder this time. On top of that, serious concussion and heavy blood loss from abdominal trauma. It's-it's a wonder you're still-" he chokes, unable to finish.

"Still alive? Yeah, it's quite something."

He wriggles his hand around between Sherlock's, hissing lightly, until he manages to intertwine his fingers with Sherlock's, and smiles, until a sudden thought crosses his mind. "What day is it?"

"Thursday. You've been out of it for three days."

"And... and you've been here all this time?"

Sherlock is silent for a while, dropping his gaze to observe the steady, if still weak rise and fall of John's chest, the beeping of the ECG machine ringing in his ears.

"Oh God, don't tell me you've not eaten either."

Sherlock just shakes his head.

"Have you even _slept_?"

"Yes, but... I had nightmares. It just – it just kept replaying itself in my head. And I was afraid that," he hangs his head, and starts fiddling with the hem of his coat, "I was afraid that I'd miss the moment you wake up."

There is silence, and then,

"You absolute idiot."

John's laughing. Sherlock's eyes instantly flicker towards his face, and he's laughing, little wrinkles appearing in the corners of his eyes and mouth as he squeezes Sherlock's hand, and John decides that he quite likes the way his fingers fit perfectly between Sherlock's, and how warm Sherlock's hand is.

But Sherlock looks puzzled, and it's probably the first time John's seen him like this, so he laughs and laughs until he can't laugh anymore because his side hurts and it feels as if he's going to explode into a million tiny pieces because, in his own strange little way, _Sherlock's just told me he loves me. _

And Sherlock finally understands, and he laughs too, because_ we don't need words because we're brilliant even if John doesn't quite realise that he's magnificent, too._

John squeezes Sherlock's hand again, and reaches out his left to touch the other man's face, and Sherlock obliges again, leaning in with a huge smile on his face which is even redder than before, and he looks _so sweet and relieved and just so damn happy _that John just can't help but grin again, caressing his cheeks and jaw and curling his fingers in the magnificent dark mop of hair, Sherlock's skin burning beneath his touch, and it's all just so _perfect_ that John feels as if he's going to cry (_how on Earth do normal people deal with so many emotions all at the same time?_)

And when John pulls Sherlock's head down and their lips brush for the first time, it feels like fireworks are going off inside John's head and he knows that _he's going home._


End file.
